The next morning I awoke with a long cinnamon, soft dead limb across my back. I looked up and saw smooth round lids over sunset eyes that took in the world at a glance. My lips turned up at the corners slightly as I remembered. Laughter about a hidden world inside a mystery closet door of a room of small peculiar proportions with a bed that forced his feet to dangle over its end. Stories of dirty homeless men and smoking until Margaret and Jane reached a state of walking. A walk that led to him, so far away. And now it was okay or even better to feel small spouts of air upon my face as I looked up at his and to be so warm under that dead limb. And when that limb came alive and those dark eyelids turned to dark circles replacing the yolks of two eggs, I asked will I be okay? And now that I see him basking in his comfort, I know I won't and can't look at him for a month. Every time I see his picture, so different from mine, I think why? The days pass, each with new hope and more fright. Day twenty-four and I'm dripping red. I can breathe again. I laugh at my pain. Until the next morning I lay staring up at his ugly bulging brown lids, because now I realize he's an addict and I'm his fix.
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